


zanshin

by meguri_aite



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M, and their horrible life choices, horrible exorcists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And when the youkai that thirsts after your eye has the ability to disguise itself as a human to get its hands on you, shaping itself after your dreams and fears, you have to know exactly whom to expect.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	zanshin

**Author's Note:**

> _In kyudo, the shooting does not end with the release of the arrow, it ends with zanshin. The word zanshin is a homonym. It can mean "remaining body" or "remaining spirit." Both definitions are used to explain the period following the release when one continues to hold one's position and send the spirit forth, even after the arrow has reached the target._
> 
>  
> 
> [Kyuudo: Stages of Shooting](http://www.kyudo.com/hassetsu.html)

Telling where anyone’s strengths and weaknesses lie is one of the first things you learn when you join the Matoba clan.

Knowing your own, however, is a survival skill when you are the Matoba heir, brought up to take the place at the line of fire. Young girls learnt to walk straight with a jug balanced on their heads, and Matoba heirs learnt to walk the tightrope with a target sign painted on their persons.

Being strong enough to kill the youkai is not enough – you have to be strong enough to drive it away with just enough force. Strong enough to lure it back with carefully exposed chunks in your armor, so that it returns even angrier and more resentful, bringing more power to the clan it haunts.

And when the youkai that thirsts after your eye has the ability to disguise itself as a human to get its hands on you, shaping itself after your dreams and fears, you have to know exactly whom to expect.

So Matoba Seiji likes to think that he isn’t unprepared when sees the figure of Natori Shuuichi in his window, appearing from behind the bushes with a lopsided smile and a gaping hole where his right eye is supposed to be.

What Matoba doesn’t understand, however, is why he doesn’t send an arrow flying at it right on confirming it was the youkai – persistent and ever-evolving it may be, but even in the most cunning disguise the creature remains one-eyed.

It is only dangerous if you forget it is, Matoba Seiji tells himself.

“What’s a Natori exorcist doing uninvited on my clan’s premises?” he asks in a singsong voice as he takes a careful aim at the youkai’s feet.

He doesn’t expect it to say anything, but finds some cruel gratification when he hears, “Seiji- ”

“Wrong answer,” he whispers with a smile, and releases the string.

The youkai melts into shadows with a hiss.

* * *

For a shape-shifter that leeches off human memories, the youkai is not particularly bright. You could have expected the monster that doggedly attacks you every month to have higher efficiency and success rate – his fingertips whisper over the paper covering his eye – but its capability to evolve seems to be focused solely on coming up with increasingly elaborate ways to aim at the same spots over and over. Matoba Seiji notes to himself that such approach is probably not that surprising in a creature that has made its goal to pursue any person in the shoes of the Matoba clan head, but he refuses to spend more time pondering on the nature of this single-mindedness than is necessary to establish control over it.

Subjugation doesn’t have to be straightforward; applying force to pressure points works just as fine if the game is expected to stay alive and bite back at strategically bared hands.

And it is his hands that have to be offered, as it is the duty of new clan head to nurture the spirit’s grudge. Just another task to do, another process to monitor.

He tells himself that it’s the satisfaction of knowing what exactly to expect that makes him look forward to this one.

* * *

The youkai seeks to catch him alone, compelled by whatever insight it has gleamed from his consciousness.

Matoba doesn’t mind.

Taunting the youkai with the pretense of accepting his guise of choice long enough to exchange a few words with it seems like a satisfactory strategy. With every new meeting lasting a moment longer, the eye of the spirit grows brighter with hunger, and the face it wears gets crisper and more solid.

Matoba folds his umbrella and lets it take a step closer to him.

“Are you looking for something, Shuuichi-san?”

* * *

The moves of this dance, though taking them through the same pattern, get more involved with time.

Their exchanges, however, get less frequent. With a growing number of pressing matters that require the presence of the clan’s head, Matoba doesn’t have much time to be alone. Several months can pass by with the youkai attempting only direct attacks at the crowds of Matoba exorcists shielded behind bright umbrellas.

It really tries to make up in perseverance what it lacks in cunning, he notes to himself.

It is because their more private encounters get so infrequent that Matoba Seiji almost hesitates to cut them short too soon, with an enchanted knife aimed at a spot between the youkai’s ribs or an arrow sent to chase it away. If the spirit has fewer opportunities to be allowed to feel like it is getting closer to its goal, Matoba considers it worthwhile to entertain the illusion of deception a bit longer, to keep the youkai’s interest.

He observes with academic interest the evolution of the spirit’s guise; it is not as skilled at mimicking speech patterns as it is at mirroring physical appearances, but that, too, is noticeably improving.  

Their exchanges could now be almost taken for conversations, he thinks with detached satisfaction.

* * *

It is one of these infrequent times when Matoba can watch twilight soundlessly bleed the colors out of the day, making one of the rare forest trips in solitude.

Well, in relative solitude, he amends as he turns his head to right, following a rustle of leaves with awareness not unlike anticipation.  

It always approaches from the right. Consistently predictable.

“Good evening, Shuuichi-san,” Matoba greets him with a mocking nod.

The sarcasm, as usual, is lost on the youkai.

“Matoba,” it says with a jerky movement of his head. The creature has a habit of fixing him with its one-eyed stare, which impairs the smoothness of the mimicry. However, the sight of these particular features caught in the expression of such undisguised interest is peculiar in its own right.

“What brings you here tonight?”

“Same as usual. An assignment.” The youkai snaps a little twig between its fingers, crushes the bits of it between his fingers with enough force to make human skin break. Yet another deviation from the image he remembers, Matoba notes with mild disapproval; it’s no wonder the spirit appeals to emotions, its guises are too flawed to withstand any logical scrutiny.

“Hunting after some small prey?” Matoba asks, adjusting the folds of his yukata, and youkai takes it as invitation to take a step closer.

“Not exactly.” The youkai’s lips twist hungrily, and Matoba looks at it with amusement. “I’ve been after it…for a while now.”

“Have you, now,” Matoba answers pleasantly. His fingertips find a knife behind the folds of the fabric, and Matoba lowers his eyes, calculating how many steps closer the youkai can be allowed before the knife leaves its sheath.

Predictability is not complacence.

It’s only dangerous if you forget it is.

“Matoba!”

He frowns, not at the syllables of his name uttered in that voice, but at the urgency of the tone. Is the youkai getting too impatient?

“Run!”

Is the old dog learning new tricks?

Matoba tightens his fingers around the knife and looks the youkai right in the eye.

“What are you saying, Shuuichi-san?” he almost whispers at the spirit, and watches it tremble with excitement, visibly ready to lurch. “Are you threatening me?” He tries to scan the nearby area, but the encroaching dark does not help his already imperfect vision, especially not when he cannot afford to lose sight of the figure in front of him.

The youkai opens his mouth, but before any words can come out, he hears it again.

“Matoba!”

The forest itself seems to emanate tension, but Matoba dismisses the notion and keeps looking at youkai, almost daring it to jump, almost seeing the arc the blade would make before it sinks in.

“Seiji _THAT IS NOT ME will you listen_!”

In a burst of paper dolls and leaves, his hat knocked off and leaves and twigs in his hair, Natori Shuuichi practically crashes from behind or possibly over the trees, judging by his angry, disheveled look, struggling for breath, and Matoba takes a second to think, _so many flaws, more than I had counted_.

Apparently, the youkai takes this dramatic entrance as its cue to attack, and Matoba is going to be a second too late to dodge it, the second he hasn’t taken into account, and the sharp claws are going to reach his face, and he can almost see the arc –

But he doesn’t, because a chain of paper dolls yanks at the clawed hand and the body of Natori Shuuichi that he is so accustomed to seeing, and hauls it up until it’s pinned against the nearest tree trunk – until it isn’t. The youkai disappears with a familiar frustrated hiss, as it does, and is not going to be back until another month is over.

“What were doing? Didn’t you hear my warnings?”

Natori Shuuichi wouldn’t stop huffing over him, even after checking him for injuries with several quick motions, and Matoba rubs at his eye as if trying to erase the unwanted impressions with the momentary exhaustion.

“I’m not injured,” he says, stiffly, reluctant to say more just yet.

“Did you know you might be dealing with a shape-shifting youkai?”

Matoba looks at him, at his face that has learnt to hide things well, and thinks this will be a risk he’s willing to take.

“No,” he lies without missing a beat. “I guess sometimes even my network of informants can be wrong. I’m perfectly fine, though, Shuuichi-san.”

Natori frowns – he frowns all too much for a person who has a day job as ridiculous as his, Matoba thinks – but leaves it at that.

“If you say so.” He gives him one last look, no more questioning than it was when examining him for injuries.

“No need to trouble yourself,” Matoba smiles his dismissal, a familiar command at the world. “I’m sure you have a busy schedule, duties and all.”

He straightens the folds of his yukata and leaves, before Shuuichi-san can.

Matoba always has his duties.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ever since jan [posted](http://epiphenomenal.tumblr.com/post/112508925842) this insight into the dynamics between the matoba clan and their enemy youkai, i knew i couldn't just let it go
> 
> thank you, rinka, for looking through the text despite all the side-eyeing
> 
> i love everyone in the horrible exorcists bar *sobs*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: zanshin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262512) by [lady_peony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony)




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